Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
He lifts his palm and looks at me… and I know. This is it. My last chance to say no, but I don’t take it. My eyes dare him.
He pushes in, inch by thick inch, stretching me wide, the burn creeping up so strong it’s almost too much to take. It’s not soft—nothing sweet about it—just raw, taking me, filling me up, his cock hard and unyielding, pressing into me like it’s claiming a space for itself inside me.
I feel every goddamn bit of his cock—hot, relentless, throbbing, shoving deep, splitting me open. Tears sting my eyes and spill down my cheeks, blurring the dark shape of him above me. A whimper slips out of my tight throat, low and broken. He stops the merciless onslaught and waits, letting me get used to the unbearable stretch. Then his hands grip my waist, rough palms digging into my skin, thumbs scraping over my hip bones, and he begins to move again. A deep, grinding thrust, slow as hell, dragging inside me, and I moan, a guttural, primitive sound. I feel him scrape every nerve raw.
He shifts, harder, deeper, more brutal, fucking me with a steady, punishing rhythm, each push slamming the sofa back against the wall. The springs groan, a creak that matches the thud of him inside me. The wet smack of us echoes around us, obscenely as the heat blooms wild between my legs. My voice cracks, a hoarse cry rushes out, rough and desperate. My hands claw at his back, nails raking hard, digging into his skin, drawing blood as the intensity climbs. He grunts. Low. Animal. Every thrust shoves me deeper into the cushions. The cool air against my sweat-damp skin clashes with the fire of him.
I feel it all—his hard cock driving hard, the stretch tearing me apart, my body gripping him, tight and greedy, sucking him in. It’s so good—fuck, too good. The wet heat of us is loud in my ears, a filthy rhythm that drowns out the night. My legs shake with slow spasms, and my spine arches, forcing him deeper, chasing it.
And then I hear it. A knocking. On the front door.
“Who is that?” I gasp.
“My butler. He likes to watch,” he replies.
And I lose it—mind fraying, slipping away fast on a deep, rolling wave that explodes. I come hard, a scream clawing up from my sex and bursting out, loud and ragged, shattering me to pieces. But it doesn’t stop—my body keeps going, pulsing wild, and I try to pull back, gasping, clawing for air, and I can’t. It’s relentless—I grab at his shoulders, then the sofa, fingers sinking into the fabric, trying to stop, and it won’t—fuck, I can’t—and panic seeps in, slow, icy, curling around my ribs. Am I going mad? My heart slams, terror cutting sharp through the haze, and I’m trembling, lost, drowning in it.
I wake with a cry of fear, air rushing in so thick like it is pulling me under, a scream caught in my throat, my hand slamming hard over my mouth, pressing tight enough to hurt my lips. The still cottage surrounds me full of dark, cold shadows, eerie as hell. The air presses in like a weight. I feel my heart pounding so hard my ribs rattle. I look down and see that I’m sprawled on the sofa, blanket twisted tight around my legs, my clothes are damp, and my sweat runs cold. My thighs stick together. My phone’s gone—lost somewhere in the junk. It’s dead and silent, but Sandy’s voice is a faded echo in my head.
Shit. I fell asleep talking to her, and that… that was a freaking dream.
“I’m losing it.” My voice is a cracked whisper, barely audible in the dark. “The butler. Fuck. I’m fucking losing it.”
I sit up slowly. My skin’s buzzing, alive, too much—his hands, his mouth, his cock still crawling over me, so real I swear I feel the ache between my legs, the wet heat still there, pulsing faint. “I’m losing it,” I whisper again.
My head spins as I stand on unsteady legs. They tremble under me like they’ve forgotten how to hold my weight. My hands shake as I fumble through my bag clumsily, fingers brushing my stuff from another world, keys, my Kindle, before I find clothes, a pair of underwear, a crumpled shirt, and a soft hoodie. I clutch them hard, and tell myself this is real, not that, but I can’t shake those wolf-like eyes boring into me, that rough voice scraping my ears, the way he fucked me, slow then hard. It happened right here. My thighs clench involuntarily, and I feel a slickness still there, warm, real, and I’m horrified. My stomach twists sharply as my body betrays me. How can it be that I’m still turned on?
What the hell is happening?